


The Choreography Of It

by Myxini



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Asexuality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:46:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myxini/pseuds/Myxini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s fingers slid up along Castiel’s jawline. Cas focused on the touch, willing a fire to ignite in his chest. That’s what Balthazar had once said it would feel like. A fire, or a pull, or even a pain....</p><p>Long story short: Cas is asexual. Dean definitely isn’t. Set sometime during early/mid Season 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Choreography Of It

It was a touch that made Castiel realize that Dean loved him back. A tender squeeze of the hand, too deliberate to be friendly, with the tips of Dean’s fingers brushing across the backs of Cas’s as he let go. As unnatural as the gesture was to him, Castiel had lived enough millenia to know what touches could mean.

They’d been in the Impala at the time, staking out a laundromat in Coeur D’Alene. Cas had been sitting shotgun, because Sam was mooching off the WiFi from the nearby Starbucks and had his research spread out over the backseat. His laptop had just died, and he’d stepped out car for a moment to put it in the trunk. That’s when it happened. The warmth of Dean’s right hand over Castiel’s left. The squeeze.

Castiel looked up. Stared at Dean. Searched his face for some other explanation, because it seemed unthinkable to him that Dean could mean what Cas thought he meant. After all, Dean liked women. Flirty, sensual, sexy women. Everything Castiel wasn’t.

Dean held his gaze. The corners of mouth curved upwards. They shared one warm, perfect instant. Then Dean pulled his hand away and turned his head back to the front, just as Sam returned.

The car felt warmer somehow after that.

 

Seven hours and one showdown with an angry witch later, Castiel sat on the end of the sagging motel bed, trying to recall every detail of that touch. The pressure, firm but gentle. The choreography of it; the rhythm, the path of the fingertips. He brushed his own right hand over his left. Recreating. Practicing.

Sam was out, looking for leads on the rest of the coven at a local burlesque show. He’d barely been able to believe that Dean hadn’t wanted to assume that duty. But Dean had insisted. “Seriously, Sammy, just go. I got a pretty bad conk on the head earlier, think I better take it easy tonight.”

Sam probably would have pressed the matter, but Dean’s phone had rung at that moment, so Sam had left without further protest. Dean was still on the phone now, talking to Bobby about some ancient Etruscan symbol.

Castiel watched Dean as he paced the length of the room. Watched the the way his body shifted beneath his clothes, his muscles shifted beneath his skin. He was perfect. So perfectly designed. A masterpiece of God and somehow much more. Cas loved him. He loved the sound of his voice and the light of his soul and everything he ever said or did.

Cas stared down at his hands and silently begged them to do what they needed to.

“Yeah, call me back if you find anything. Thanks Bobby.” Dean hung up and tossed his phone on the table. “Well, he’s got nothing. We’re gonna have to try a different angle.”

He crossed the room and sat down beside Castiel. The bedsprings groaned under his weight. “So, uh, what’s your plan, Cas? You gotta get back to the God hunt? Or d’you think you could, I dunno, stay awhile?”

“Dean….” Cas turned to look at him and his words died in his throat. Because Dean was staring at him. And that smile was back—hopeful and nervous and a touch cocky. And his eyes were wide and bright and open. And Cas’s own eyes wanted rove over every crease and bulge of his face, exploring it like the terrain of a distant moon, admiring every tiny detail.

“What, Cas?”

He snapped back to the moment and the words came out in a rush. “Dean, I love you.”

Dean's smile vanished. He blinked, looking like he’d been struck. “Wow.” He chuckled nervously. “Cas, you, uh… you don’t mince words.”

“I apologize if that was too forward, but I had to say it. I’ve loved you for months, Dean. Almost ever since I pulled you from Hell. And earlier, it seemed to me that perhaps, perhaps you meant to communicate to me that—”

“Shhh.” Dean placed a finger against Cas’s mouth. His smile had returned and it was brighter than ever. He seemed euphoric. Radiant. “I know, Cas. I can see the way you look at me. At first I thought it was just you being… you know, angel-y. But you never look at Sam that way.” The rest of his hand moved in. Brushed Cas’s cheek. Cupped his chin. “I look at you that way too, you know. Only I tried to hide it. I was in denial for a long time, Cas. But I can’t stand it anymore. I want you.”

His fingers slid up along Cas’s jawline. Cas focused on the touch, willing a fire to ignite in his chest. That’s what Balthazar had once said it would feel like. A fire, or a pull, or even a pain.

The touch felt nice. The implications of it made Cas warm and happy. But there was no pull. No pain.

Panic welled from the pit of his stomach, mixing with the joy flooding down from his heart. He could not let this stand between Dean and himself. Not when all other boundaries were quickly being demolished.

“Dean,” said Cas, because the only way he knew how to speak was with his voice, “I want… I want to make you happy.”

Dean grinned. “You know, Cas… I want to make you happy, too. And I'm going to. I’m going to make you the happiest angel on the freaking planet.”

His hand slipped up into Cas’s hair. His fingers worked through the strands.

Cas’s own hands were still resting on his knees. They were trembling. They had stage fright.

Pressure, he told them. Rhythm. Time to shine.

He reached across his body with his left hand, moving it onto Dean’s knee. There. That was something.

Luckily, Dean took it from there. He covered Cas’s hand with his own, twining their fingers together. He was in close now. Cas could feel his warm breath on his neck—and then the rough stubbly surface of his cheek, and then the soft press of his lips. Dean was in perpetual motion. He stroked and grasped. He caressed and explored.

Cas was terribly aware that in comparison, he was stiff as board.

He forced his fingers to move. Ran them along the back of Dean’s hand. Pressure. Rhythm.

Balthazar had said that he would know how to do this. He’d said it would come naturally, that it might be awkward at first but that Cas would figure it out, because he would be able to tell what felt good and what didn’t. He’d feel his body react.

Cas’s body was dead. His heart was warm and giddy, overjoyed that Dean loved him, that Dean was letting him in close. But the motion itself meant nothing. It was all in the implications.

 How was he going to give Dean what he deserved with nothing but implications as a guide?

Dean’s lips fluttered against Cas’s cheek. His hand slipped down from Cas’s hair to cup his jaw. And then they were kissing.

This was supposed to be beautiful. That much Cas knew. He tried to copy Dean’s movements, and when Dean’s tongue wormed its way into his mouth, he let it happen. He tried not to think about how incredibly silly it was, the whole notion of two people essentially licking the insides of each other’s mouths.

Dean let out a soft groan and broke away. “Cas… look, this is crazy, I know this is crazy. But I want you.”

Cas took a deep breath. “You can have me.”

Dean grinned. He tilted his head invitingly towards the bed.

Cas scrambled backwards, towards the pillows. Dean followed, pulling off his leather jacket with a sort of eager desperation. His hands grasped the edges of Cas’s trenchcoat and pushed the fabric away from his shoulders. Cas shrugged the coat off and Dean tossed it to the floor. He pushed Cas back into the mattress. The bedsprings creaked beneath them.

Cas curled his fingers around the fabric of Dean’s shirt. Should he pull at it? Should he try to take it off? Dean’s hands were at his throat, loosening his tie. They moved to the buttons of his shirt, pulling them apart to bare Cas’s collarbone—

Suddenly Dean stopped. He pulled back, giving Cas a concerned look. “You all right?”

Cas nodded, swallowing.

“You don't seem very into this.”

He couldn’t meet Dean’s eyes.

“Hey….” Dean rolled away, putting a foot or so between them. “Cas, it’s fine if you don’t want to.”

“I… do want to.”

Dean frowned at him. “You know, you’re crap at lying.” He sat up. “Seriously. I get it if you’re not sure what you want yet. We can take it slow, okay?”

“Dean….”

“Hey.” Dean reached over and held Cas’s shoulder. Cas stiffened at the touch. His eyes darted from Dean’s hand to his face.

Dean’s expression was warm, but there was a hint of worry, a bit of tension between the eyebrows. “Don’t sweat it, okay?” He slid off the bed. “I can take a cold shower. Wouldn’t be the first time.” He scooped the trenchcoat up off the floor and tossed it back to Cas.

Cas put it on, pulling it tight around himself. “Dean, I love you.”

“Yeah, you said that already.” He cleared his throat. A smile played around lips, but he wouldn’t look up from the floor. “And, Cas, you’re great, all right? You’re… freaking beautiful.”

“I should go. I’ll be back in the morning.”

“Yeah, you better be.”

Castiel took one long last look at Dean. Then he spread his wings and fled.

 

He spent the night sitting on a bench in Central Park.

He didn’t usually go to cities for this sort of thing. He preferred remote places, forgotten spots along freeways in Wyoming or Alberta where even the landscape seemed lonely and content that way. But tonight, he wanted to people-watch. So he sat near the path and observed the young couples as they strolled hand-in-hand through the warm summer night.

That contact. Skin pressed against skin. It was so strangely important to them. But his body was always going to feel dead against Dean’s because his body _was_ dead. It didn’t feel anything. Not that way.

He looked down at himself. His clothes were still rumpled, his tie still loose. The top two buttons of his shirt were still undone. The air felt humid against his chest. He considered fixing his appearance, but decided against it. Nobody would care here, and despite the circumstances, the knowledge that it was Dean who had undone those buttons still filled his insides with warmth.

A pair of young women walked past Castiel’s bench. Their arms were intertwined. One of them had her head thrown back, laughing up at the stars. The other pulled her against her chest and leaned in close. They kissed.

So much contact.

Castiel had never kissed anyone before that night. He had certainly never had sex. Dean had asked him about that once, and he’d said it was because he’d never had the occasion. It hadn’t been a lie; merely a half-truth. He’d never had the occasion because he’d never particularly wanted the occasion. Balthazar had tried to convince him several times. “It’s enjoyable, Castiel! It feels amazing. Go find someone pretty and ask.”

But Castiel never had. Because… well, what was the point?

Angels tended to have sex for the sake of having sex. If a pair inspired carnal desire in one another, they might find a private corner of Heaven and resolve the issue. That was that. Angels didn’t date. They didn’t get lost in the sparkles of each other’s eyes over coffee or hold hands at the movies. They didn’t marry. They didn’t settle down or have families or grow old with anyone.

They didn’t fall in love. Not really.

An elderly couple passed by. They moved at a slow shuffle, because the man leaned on a cane. His wife matched his pace, taking small slow steps. Their wrinkled hands rested comfortably in a soft grasp. It looked casual, like they had held hands so often that it was their natural state. The woman spoke softly, and the man chuckled, a low grandfatherly sound.

Castiel wondered what human couples did when they aged, when their bodies became too frail and fragile for sex. How did they affirm their love for one another?

He watched them hobble into the distance.

 

The next morning, Castiel returned to Coeur D’Alene as promised.

Sam seemed surprised to see him. “Cas. Thought you’d taken off.”

“I’ll help you finish this case first.”

“Great. We could use all the help we can get. This coven is nasty. Took out another vic last night. Dean and I were just about to head to the coroner’s, if you wanna tag along.”

“Well, actually….” Dean emerged from the bathroom. “Someone’s gotta go question the witness. How about Cas and I take care of that while you see about the dead guy?”

So they dropped Sam off at the morgue and headed for the outskirts of the city. Cas zapped into the front seat. He looked out the window as they cruised past blocks of modest suburban houses. Some had bright plastic children’s toys out front. Others had dogs barking at a fence round the back. A few families were outside, enjoying the weather. At one house, a middle-aged couple was out gardening. Cas watched as the woman turned her garden hose from the petunia bed to her husband, who was on his knees pulling weeds. He managed to see how the man laughed and threw clods of dirt at her before the Impala had gone past.

They pulled up in front of a small white house with overgrown gardens.

“All right,” said Dean. He pulled out his notes from the police report. “So this chick we’re about to talk to, her name’s Carrie Porter.”

Dean’s hand was resting on the Impala’s gear stick.

“Apparently, she was out having drinks last night when suddenly her best friend keels over with her organs liquefied.”

Should he touch it?

“She was close to the vic, so try to go easy on her.”

If that were his hand, Dean would touch it. Wouldn’t he?

“And for God’s sake, make sure your badge is the right way up this time. Got it?”

Tentatively, Cas reached out and placed his hand over Dean’s.

There followed an intensely awkward moment.

Dean pulled away. “Okay Cas, what’s going on?”

“I was… trying to express my affection for you.”

“Well, you might wanna work on your timing.”

Cas balled his fists, frustrated. He had to make himself understood. “Dean, I love—”

“Okay, I get it! Don’t say it again!”

The words died on Cas’s tongue. He swallowed and stared into his lap.

“Last night, you said… _that_ , but you didn’t want to get physical. And okay, fine, but now you’re getting touchy-feely during work hours. I just can’t figure you out.”

There was a short pause.

“Dean, you should not love me,” said Cas quietly.

Dean shot him a defiant glare. “Oh yeah? Why not?”

“Because I will never be able to please you.”

“That’s a bunch of crap. You make me happy all the time, okay?”

“I mean sexually, Dean.”

Dean’s mouth dropped open. His expression flashed from shock to confusion to nervous amusement. “Uh, Cas, not to argue, but I’m pretty sure you’re… _more_ than capable of that.”

Cas shook his head. “You don’t understand. The reason I was unable to make love to you last night was not because I was scared, or unsure of what I wanted. I know what I want. I want _you.”_

Dean grinned slightly. “And I want you, Cas. So why’d we stop?”

“Because,” said Cas, “for reasons I don’t understand, my mind doesn’t link wanting you with wanting certain parts of our bodies to touch.”

“…What?”

“Dean, your body is beautiful, but you are so much more than that. You’re… the music you sing along to in the car. You’re bacon cheeseburgers and warm pie. You’re the compassion you feel for the weak and helpless, and the rage you feel towards those who would do wrong, and the fear and insecurity that you bury deep inside yourself. That’s what I want. All of that.”

Dean stared. His expression trembled. “Cas….”

“Everything you are, Dean, is beautiful. Your body is only the tiniest part of it.”

Dean swallowed, regaining his composure. “So… you want me, but you don’t want to have sex with me, is what you’re saying?”

“It’s nothing personal. I have never wanted to have sex with anyone. I don’t understand why. I am physically capable of sexual acts. But they mean nothing to me.”

“Is this an angel thing?”

Cas shook his head. “Angels are fully capable of sexual attraction. Some of them are quite… well, you should see my brother Balthazar. No, this is just me.” He heaved a sigh. “Dean, you don’t deserve this.”

“The hell do you mean?”

“I may not experience these urges myself, but I understand them. You crave passion. You have needs. You deserve someone who can fulfill you.”

“Look, I’m not gonna deny that Little Dean has needs, okay? But screw that. I have needs too.” He leaned close, his eyes fierce. “I don't care what you think I deserve. I want you. You. Cas. Castiel, Angel of the Lord.”

They stared deep into each other’s eyes.

A roguish grin flickered over Dean’s face. “Now,” he whispered. “Now is a good time to take my hand.”

So Cas did. And Dean’s thumb rubbed circles into Cas’s palm and his fingertips brushed over Cas’s knuckles.

 

 

Forty-five minutes later, they had gotten the information they needed from Carrie Porter and were back in the Impala.

“We’re picking up Sam, correct?” Cas asked.

“Yeah,” said Dean. He put the key in the ignition and was about to turn it when suddenly, he paused. “Cas, can I ask you one more thing? If you don’t want to have sex, what _do_ you want to do? Instead, I mean. What, to you, is the ultimate, intimate… thing?”

Cas had never considered this, not consciously at least. He closed his eyes. Reached down to the desire that burned deep in his chest and let it fill him up.

“This,” he said, and he touched Dean’s shoulder.

A wave of heat washed over them. Castiel opened his eyes and gazed out over the tangle of white-walled buildings that spread across the land beneath them, spilling down the slope towards the glittering blue ocean. He and Dean were standing on a rooftop, so that they could see the maze of narrow streets and secret alleys that threaded through the crumbling walls, and the web of clotheslines bearing laundry that rustled in the soft evening breeze. The land was bathed in the orangish light of a sinking sun.

“Holy crap.” Dean’s jaw dropped. He glanced wildly around him. “Where the hell are we, Cas?”

“The Casbah of Algiers."

“The Casbah? What, like the song by The Clash?”

“Algiers is the capital of Algeria. We’re in northern Africa.”

Dean ran a hand through his hair. “I was never very good at geography.”

“What do you think of it, Dean?”

“It’s, um…” Dean glanced around him. Cas had never seen him so completely at a loss. “It’s… great. Hot though.”

“They have a cathedral here, Dean. Would you like to see it?”

“I—sure, Cas, why not?”

Cas transported them across to city, so that they stood on a wide concrete square in front of a magnificent basicilca. It was built of tan stone, rising from the ground in a series of elegant arches and columns and domes.

Dean let out a low whistle. “Nice,” he murmured.

“It was built by the French, back when Algeria was under French rule,” Cas explained. “There is an inscription inside, Dean. It says ‘Our Lady of Africa, pray for us and for the Muslims.’ Most of this country is Muslim, you see.” Cas stared up at the cathedral, tilting his head. “It’s peculiar, isn’t it? Sometimes I wonder why it matters so much. What difference it all makes. Everyone has got a little bit right and a little bit wrong, so why does it matter?”

“Uh… I don’t know, Cas. People get worked up about lots of stuff.”

“I know they do. Let’s look at something else.” He touched Dean’s shoulder again.

They reappeared in a dark city street several thousand miles away. It was the middle of the night, but the street was jammed, and Dean and Cas were bumped and jostled by the floods of people who rushed past. They were pressed in on all sides by skyscrapers and the colorful flashes LED lights and the prodigious sound of crowd chatter and traffic.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean stumbled back and forth, trying to get out of the way, but there was no place on the sidewalk that wasn’t already occupied.

“Welcome to Hong Kong,” said Cas. He grabbed Dean’s hand so they wouldn’t get separated and pulled him through the crowd. For a few minutes they walked without speaking, pushing their way through the humid noisy night.

“What do you think, Dean?”

“I think that I’ve never seen so many goddamn people in my life!”

Cas nodded. “Incredible, isn’t it? To think that every single one of these humans has hopes and dreams. A family.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice softened. “Actually, I think about stuff like that a lot.”

“Tell me about it, Dean.”

The crowd had pushed the two of them close, so that their shoulders were pressed together. Their intertwined hands hung at their sides.

“Uh, well,” said Dean in a quiet, uncomfortable voice, “you know, I just think about it when we’re on the road, Sammy and me. We pass cars and sometimes I see the folks inside. And sometimes I feel kinda close to them. Doesn’t matter if it’s a redneck spitting out his window or some douche in a suit on his Bluetooth or a mom taking her kid to baseball or an old lady trying to cart her bags of cat food home. It’s… they’re all like me. They all could be me. You know, if I don’t keep demons from killing their families.”

There was a heavy pause as Dean stared into the distance. Then suddenly he twitched. Lifted his hand and scrubbed at his face. “Shit, what am I talking about?”

“Yourself,” said Cas with a small smile. “Don't stop.”

“Can we get out of here?” Dean’s eyes darted back and forth. His chest heaved. He looked like a caged animal. “It’s too damn crowded.”

Cas nodded. “As you wish,” he said, and reached for Dean’s shoulder.

The heat and noise vanished abruptly.

They stood atop a rugged mountain—the tallest of the many that surrouned them. The slopes, blanketed in loose rocks and thin vegetation, dropped away into a channel of calm, flat water. The midnight sun hung low in the weak bluish sky. Delicately chilly air, smelling of ice and wilderness, swirled about them. It was profoundly quiet.

“Tell me more,” said Cas.

“Uh….” Dean turned in a slow circle, gaping at the landscape. “You first. Where’s this?”

“Tysfjord, Norway. Now Dean… tell me more.”

“About what?”

“Everything. What you see. What you think. What you want. What you dream.”

Dean was silent.

Somewhere far off, a bird let out a squeaking cry.

“You know,” said Castiel, “when you look at this place, it’s easy to imagine that it’s timeless. That it was always like this and always will be. That’s not true though. Everything changes, even the Earth itself. Once, it rained ammonia and the world was a single ocean. I remember those times, Dean. I could never have dreamed how different everything would become. Change is unpredicatable. Ages start and end. Empires rise and fall.”

“Huh,” said Dean softly. “Yeah, I get that. People live and die. Dads go missing and you gotta look for them. And then the friggin’ Apocalypse comes along.”

Cas nodded. “In a world like this, it becomes desirable, I believe, to have just one thing that you know will remain constant.”

He turned to Dean, letting his gaze roam over his face. It was so exquisite. Every flicker and dart of his pupils. Every minute shift in the muscles of his face, every tiny movement that alluded to the unqiue way in which the world flowed through that radiant soul of his.

Castiel sighed aloud.

Dean frowned at him. “What?”

Cas smiled. “You.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re always doing things.”

Dean gave him a long searching stare, like he was trying to figure him out. “Can I kiss you?” he asked finally. “Does that weird you out?”

“Not as long as it means you love me,” said Cas.

They kissed.

When they broke apart, they were back in the Impala.

Dean looked frazzled, but his eyes were glowing. “So that’s your version of sex, huh? Zapping me around the world and making me talk?”

“I suppose so, yes. Did you enjoy it?”

 “I still like my version better. But yeah. I enjoyed it, Cas.” Dean started the engine. “Think I’d enjoy most anything, long as I’m with you.”

 

Sam was standing awkwardly outside the coroner’s office when they arrived, looking bored and impatient. “I thought we said an hour,” he complained as he climbed in.

“Sorry,” said Dean. “Got held up.”

That night, after they found the rest of the coven and shut it down, Dean and Cas had a few minutes of private time in the motel room while Sam went out to get a Coke.

“You know, Dean,” Cas said, sitting on the side of the bed, “if you want me to touch you, I will.”

Dean glanced up from the gun he was cleaning and frowned. “Don't worry about it, Cas. I don’t want you doing anything you don’t want to.”

“But I do want to. I want to make you happy.”

“…Are you sure?”

 “I’m sure. I only fear that I… will be unable to please you.”

A slow smile spread over Dean’s face. “We’ll see about that.”

Sam came in just then, can of Coke in hand.

“Hey Sammy, do me a favor, would ya?”

“Depends. What is it?”

Dean took a deep breath. “Make yourself scarce for a couple hours.”

Sam glanced from Dean to Cas and then back again. He smirked. “Sure thing, Dean! Just give me a call when you’re done with whoever—I mean, _whatever_ you’re doing!” He backed out of the room. The door swung shut on a muffled burst of laughter.

“Someday I’m gonna kill the bastard,” Dean muttered fondly. He crossed the room and sat next to Cas. His eyes glowed bright and eager. “You ready?”

Cas nodded. “Dean, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“It’s all right. I’ll talk you through it. I’ll teach you.”

He reached up and removed Cas’s coat. Then his tie. Then, slowly and carefully, he unbuttoned Cas’s shirt and took that off too.

The room was warm. Warmer than before, somehow.

 Dean leaned in close and brushed his fingertips along newly-bared shoulders. “Cas, I love you.”

Castiel would’ve said it back, but his mouth was already otherwise occupied.

 

And so they had sex.

Castiel didn’t particuarly enjoy it. It was rather uncomfortable, to be honest. Not to mention messy. But that didn’t matter, because it was all worth it afterwards, when Dean nestled against him, calm and exhausted and content. They touched. Skin against skin, all the way down the length of their bodies. Cas’s hand was in Dean’s hair, and as Dean snuggled up close, sighing softly from the back of his throat, Cas thought to move his fingers, to work them through the golden-brown strands.

Pressure, he thought idly. Rhythm.

This was something he could get used to.


End file.
